


The Shadows on My Wall

by JohnlockAndATardis



Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: Demons, F/M, Possible Dark Strand, Tall Paul (Possibly), Uncertain Ending, multiple interpretations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-26 00:32:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7553224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnlockAndATardis/pseuds/JohnlockAndATardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex finds a strange sort of comfort during the nights when the shadows on her wall begin to look too real. </p><p>-</p><p>A stand-alone fic inspired by Tumblr user vita-ly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shadows on My Wall

     The first time it happens is while they're on hiatus between seasons. Alex has been having nightmares for a while, but this is the first time that it actually feels _real_. That it feels different. She is laid siege to by the shadows, their eyes watching her from the blank void that should be a face -but faces don't _look like that,_ and the eyes are where the mouth should be, and the mouth is where the eyes should be. She jolts awake in a panic, frigid sweat on her palms, beading at her forehead, trickling down her back, even upon the balls of her feet and between her toes, pooling in the valleys there. The journalist’s hand shakes as she pulls the blanket up, holding it to her chin, her lip trembling.

 _No,_ she tries to tell herself as her eyes begin to water, bracing herself for the pain that comes with holding back tears, the physical ache in her eyes like a dam straining against the assault of far too many millions of gallons of water. _You are an adult Alex. A dream will_ not _make you cry,_ she chides herself. _Stop this._ But that's a hard thing to do when her eyes drag her gaze slowly away from her blankets and torturously up the walls, to look upon the shadows that she swears to herself she is imagining.

     It's not easy, either, to force herself to look away, to shield herself from those horrors and to will her body back, her head against the pillows, afraid that at any moment something might wrap its elongated fingers about her ankles and drag her out from the safety of her bed. She digs her heels into the mattress, as if it will somehow protect her from whatever horrors lay upon the walls.

     It is easier when she dares to glance in the direction of the door and sees the figure, startling at first, watching her with a concerned gaze and blue eyes that glimmer even in the suffocating darkness of the room. She finds comfort in him and in his presence, finally rationalizes that this is not really of course it is not. It is just a nightmare, and she is still dreaming. Her eyes are allowed to shut, and she pretends that she doesn't feel the shadow watching her, their gaze as tangible as a lover’s touch.

     “Goodnight Richard,” she mumbled out

     “ _Goodnight Alex._ ”

-

     The sixth -no… seventh- time, she's in a cabin far away from what could be considered by modern conventions to be civilized society. The journalist is trying to outrun her fears and the monsters that follow her everywhere she’d fine, but the memory of death still hangs as a foul, sickly scent in the air like rotted meat left to sit. The moonlight should be filling the room, opalescent and striking so far from the city, but it doesn't. Alex has closed the blinds, turned off the lights, made the darkness so thick that she can no longer see it occupy the spaces to which shadows should not belong. Alex is tired, so very tired, but the panic sears through her, seizes her body and shakes her until adrenaline release into her veins. It keeps her awake, and if she stays this way and let's it win she won't know rest until the sky is blue and strains through the heavy curtains, a savior and a thing of fear all at once. She doesn't want to be beat again, forces herself to turn her head, to ignore the shock of terror as she bares the target of her back to the monsters that watch her, vicious fangs ready for her neck. Alex’s limbs comply, tight even as her eyes befall him. A cautious hand snakes from the protection of the covers, extends in a grabbing motion like that of a frightened child.

     When his arms wrap about her torso in a touch that is secure, comfortable, and very real Alex knows that it's time she gives up the game. She can't go on pretending like this anymore, she knows she shouldn't. But she is safest with his breath against her ear, hot upon the curve of her neck, a reminder for her to stay grounded in this world and in this reality. In the reality he has given her, where monsters are(n’t) real. Alex repeats his mantra over and over again, her only protection, the only thing she has these nights to keep her safe that is not him, but also is. _Apophenia,_ she thinks. _Apophenia. Apophenia. Apophenia. Apophenia. Ap… Ap… Apo….apophenia…_

     “Goodnight Alex.”

-

     Alex has lost track now of how many times it has happened, but she can number exactly the days since the last (seven hundred and eighty three). She is peacefully asleep when the familiar chill of terror walks its way up her toes and slips in an icy sheet to cover the whole of her body. Jolting awake, it takes a moment for her to realize just what that soul crushing terror is, though she's experienced it so many times in a not too distant past that when the understanding comes it steals her breath from her lungs. Nausea bites an acrid taste at the back of her lungs as she looks about the room. The shadows are as they should be, but in the corner there is a figure she has not known in two years, one month, and twenty-two days.

     “Richard,” Alex breathes. A sudden light flashes through the darkness of the room, and Alex need no longer remember to count.


End file.
